


L-rd, send me a mechanic (if I'm not beyond repair)

by PaperKatla



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Gen, Google translate Yiddish, Jewish Characters, Judaism, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Spider-Man: Far From Home Compliant, Period-Typical Racism, Time Travel, World War II, author knows nothing of New York
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2019-11-24 10:46:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18164192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperKatla/pseuds/PaperKatla
Summary: One moment, Peter is standing outside a bodega in the blistering summer heat, the next he's passed out in a snowdrift in the middle of winter. He has no coat, no money, and no working phone. Oh, and there's one other problem--it's 1941.





	1. Chapter 1

Sometime in 1848, the crew of the HMS Erebus and the HMS Terror climbed off their ships one last time and walked together into the Arctic wilderness. Most would not to be seen again for over a century. Their mummified remains would be recovered in the 1980s, and the photographs of the men lying in their coffins would find their way into a  _ National Geographic  _ that sat in a pile under the Parkers’ coffee table some 2,000 miles away from their final resting place. Peter had spent long hours staring at the grimacing mouths and pale eyes of the corpses until May had taken the magazine away. “You’ll get a complex,” she said. 

Peter let out a breath slowly. His vision was too blurry to see the condensation, but he could still see the plastic grocery bag lying in the snow just beyond his reach. Everything hurt. It was the ache left over from the earlier sensation of every muscle in his body being stretched out, like salt water taffy, his joints popping and sparks bursting like fireworks behind his eyes. The memories before that pain felt hazy and unimportant. His fingers were cold and he could feel his grip on his cell phone loosening. His toes inside his sneakers were numb. Icy wind howled, slicing through his sweaty t-shirt, the snow burying him where he lay, curled up in a snowdrift. 

The snow confused Peter. New York had been stuck in a heat wave for the past week and a half with no promise of letting up. Spider-Man had spent most of his time helping old people who had fainted to the emergency room, and breaking up fights that seemed to erupt out of no where again and again. There was a short-tempered edginess to the city—or, rather, there was  _ more  _ of a short-tempered edginess than usual. New Yorkers weren’t exactly known for their restraint.

So, why was there snow?

Taking a deep slow breath, he took in his surroundings. The city was quiet. A thin layer of snow coated the street, interrupted only by thin tire tracks. A pathetic little snowman slouched near a storefront. The freezing air felt sharp and painful in his lungs as Peter slowly took in the snowy street. The rush of traffic, alarms, shouts, music, dogs, and pigeons had hushed, tempering themselves down from a cacophonous roar to something on the level of a very loud brass band. The smells had shifted, the exhaust less heavy, the thick odor of spices and sweat and sewer almost gone.

It was also dark.

Peter looked up, trying to blink away his blurry vision as he slowly craned his neck back. The sky stretched itself out like a tent, pinned along the tentpoles of the apartment buildings. Peter let out a frantic wheeze, blinking wildly as a memory helpfully arrived—it had been bright out before the pain. The sky that had been painted in pinks and oranges and yellows before was now the inky blue-black of a light-polluted night, the moon a hazy glow behind the clouds.

A rustle drew Peter’s attention back to the plastic bag in front of him. There was ice cream in there. He had been worried about it melting, but now...now that didn’t seem like such a worry. He and May had played an aggressive game of rock paper scissors, followed by three separate thumb wars to decide who would make the run to the bodega. May had lost every time but still sent him into the stifling heat anyway. “You’ll enjoy these moments of dictatorship when you have your own kids, trust me,” she’d said, talking around the ice cube she’d tucked between her teeth.

“You didn’t ‘have’ me,” he’d grumbled.

May had just laughed.

They’d been planning a movie night. It had been part of the deal they’d worked out since she’d learned about Spider-Man/he’d come back from the dead, and he’d been looking forward to the night off from patrolling.

Now, he was lying in a snowdrift, confused and in pain. And tired. He was  _ so tired _ . He forced his eyes to stay open, thinking hard about the grotesque image of the Franklin Expedition’s frozen bodies, with their bulging eyes and curled lips. He thought of Thomas Armitage, whose body had been found lying face down in the snow by a search team in 1859, and whose pockets carried the backwards writings of Henry Peglar. May thought it was horrible when he tried to show her the photos of the wallet and the ragged papers inside. “It says ‘all my art Tom’”, he’d told her. “Do you think that meant that Peglar loved Armitage?” Peter liked to think that Armitage died carrying his lover’s possessions. Maybe it had made Armitage feel less lonely as he passed out in the snow.

“Jeez, that’s morbid,” May had replied.

Peter’s cell phone fell from his hand. The lock screen lit up as it hit the ground, displaying a photo of him and Mr. Stark at Coney Island. There were zero bars in the corner, the time displayed on the face read 18:22 in defiance of the darkness around him. Below the time, a small notification displayed the last text message he’d sent to May with an alert that read “! Not Delivered” in red letters.

“No.” Pushing himself onto his elbows, Peter staggered to his feet. He was not Armitage, and he wasn’t going to die in a snowdrift in New York. Shivering, he rubbed his hands against his bare arms, trying to use a little friction to keep warm. His arms were uncooperative and his movements clumsy. 

Blinking, he looked around, recognizing the building as the kebab shop a few blocks from his apartment. The kebab shop window he’d been sitting under was gone, and in its place was a radio repair shop. He looked up at the window, studying the painted letters that declared that it had fair pricing and next-day repairs on most products. The display itself was filled with dozens of vintage radios, their guts spilling out across dusty shelves. In the center of the display sat a tall wooden radio, it’s side curved and smoothed, its speakers made of perforated brown cloth. Peter stared at it, marveling. He’d never seen another like it, but here it was, replacing the kebab counter where people sat and ate their orders—a radio almost as tall as Peter, glowing a warm amber, its dial tuned into a station that was playing old-fashioned dance music.

Staring into the shop window, listening to the muffled drone of the band playing on the radio, Peter felt seven, asthmatic, and traumatized all over again. This wasn’t right. It had been the afternoon, and suddenly it was night. It had been summer, and now it was winter. It had been kebabs, and now it was radios. And, worst of all, there had been people and cars everywhere, and now the street was silent and empty. 

Stuffing his phone into his pocket, he turned, staggering away from the building and towards his apartment. His teeth started to chatter and he pulled his arms in tight to his body, pushing his shoulders up near his ears. All the buildings around him looked unfamiliar, or different. Signs advertised products he’d never heard of—Postum, Arrow shirts, Hires Root Beer—and the neighborhood seemed cleaner, the streets less litter-strewn, less piss-stained.

Stumbling to a stop in front of what should have been his apartment building, he found himself staring into the window of a hat shop. He blinked, his mind trying to wrap itself around what he was seeing. His apartment building, the one he’d lived in since he was ten years old, the one where Ben had wrestled with him in front of the tv, where May had cooked her amazing lasagna and terrible meatloaf, where he’d done his homework and played video games and  _ lived  _ was gone and replaced by a hat shop. “This isn’t real.”

He started walking, slipping on ice and tripping over nothing at all. He had no idea where he was going, and only maintained a vague concept of his location by the street signs. He was in New York, he was certain of it, but almost nothing was the same.

It wasn’t until he turned a corner onto busy street that he finally understood. The storefronts were all decorated for Christmas, each of them dripping in garland and tinsel, advertising holiday sales and discounted pricing on toys, clothes, and stocking stuffers. Neon signs blinked on and off, drawing his attention to one thing and then the other, calling his eyes to scan each new advertisement along the street. The street light was green and cars and taxis whizzed by, all in a typical New York rush. Most of the cars were black, with round hoods and wheel wells, bright yellow taxis interrupting the dark sea of automobiles rushing by. A streetcar dinged it’s bell. It was the New York Peter knew—busy, impatient, bright—and, for a brief moment, he felt relieved. And then he saw the sign. 

It was the large sign painted in a store window already festooned with Christmas decorations highlighting the busy window display. The painted letters of the sign had such elaborate swoops and curls that it took Peter’s fuzzy mind a moment comprehend what was written.

_ Celebrate Christmas 1941 with Gertz Department Store! _

Putting a hand on his chest, Peter took a moment to coach himself through a breathing exercise May had taught him back when he was seven, and asthmatic, and traumatized. People pushed past, rushing in and out of department stores and smaller shops, carrying packages and bags. A man knocked into him, and then another. Peter slipped, arms pinwheeling as he tumbled into the street. A car horn blared. Headlights blinded him. A woman screamed. New, sharp pain followed a violent  _ crack  _ as the taxi’s front bumper collided with his hip. His head smashed against the street as his body was thrown into the gutter. Rivulets of blood snaked out from under him, meeting the gushing water in the gutter where it was quickly flushed down the nearby storm drain.

Armitage probably didn’t bleed before he died.

People pushed in around him. A woman was screaming for the police. A man with a thick Upper East Side accent was shouting, “He just jumped out in front of me! I swear! Came outta no where!” Someone touched his head and he screamed. “Take it easy, kid. You’re all right. You’re all right.” 

 

  
“Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Peter was climbing out the window of Queens General Hospital in nothing but a pair of striped pajamas and a bandage around his head. His arms shook, his vision blurring in and out, as he slowly made his way down. His body was still aching and his hip was screaming for respite. The bricks were bitingly cold against his bare feet and his numb fingers still stuck blessedly to the brick even as he began to lose dexterity. 

He’d woken up barely five minutes before to a smiling nurse who asked him if he had anyone who could pick him up. He gave her his address—or, rather, the hat shop’s address—and waited 

until she left the curtained off area before he grabbed his phone and keys off the bedside table and stumbled out of bed. They would find out that there was no apartment building at that address soon enough and then what? Peter was fairly certain he didn’t want to be an orphan in 1941.

Sneaking out of the children’s ward window had been too easy. He convinced the other kids in the ward to be quiet by simply asking them if they wanted to see a “cool trick”. Their gasps and shouts of surprise puffed up his pride, and one girl had even waved as she shut the window behind him. 

Dropping down into the back alley, he looked around for anyone nearby. He took a deep breath and made a decision. “I need shoes.” 

He found the cobbler’s shop first, though it appeared closed, and Peter took a moment to examine the lock before taking out the tiny Swiss Army Knife on his keychain and jimmying it open. He grabbed the first pair of men’s boot’s he could find and yanked them on. The bottom flapped open like a mouth, revealing the toes, but his heart was beating too wildly for him to dare to try a different pair. Hastily scribbling a note that read “Sorry. No Shoes. :( ” on the back of a receipt, he slipped back out the door, locking it behind him. Two blocks away, he spotted a small storefront with steam-filled windows. The sign in the window read, in Chinese and English, Chin’s Hand Laundry and Dry Cleaning. Feeling sick at the idea of doing two crimes in one day, he snuck in the back again, grabbed the first coat he saw, and ran, as a man chased after him, screaming obscenities in English and Mandarin.

Scaling a nearby office building, he ran for a block across the roofs, disturbing pigeons and running into the occasional kid who shouted at him as he rushed by. “Hey, this our turf, get your own roof!” He waved his apologies, leaping to the final building on the block. Clinging to the edge of the roof, he took a breath and slowly down into an alley, oversized coat flapping around him.

Buttoning up the coat, he stepped out onto the street and looked around. The block looked like something out of an old movie. Sun glinted off the remaining snow, while in the streets black cars sprayed slush into the air as they whizzed by, horns blaring. No one seemed to notice the kid standing on the sidewalk in a coat and pajamas, but that was New York for you.

Peter’s hip ached. Looking down, he felt all the blood rush down to his feet tucked into the oversized boots. Blinking away bright, shining spots, he dropped down on the edge of the sidewalk and put his head into his hands.

He tried to think about what he knew. He knew he was still in New York. He knew he was cold and injured. He knew he couldn’t go home because home  _ wasn’t there _ . And he knew that somehow, impossibly, it was 1941. Had he time-traveled? How? Was it a hallucination or a crazy bad-guy made computer program? Was it an alternate universe? Dr. Strange’s stone? Peter was ninety percent certain none of that was possible, but most of his life was lived in that impossible ten percent. He couldn’t be sure. He just knew he couldn’t become Armitage.

He thought about May, waiting at home for him, movie queued up, the macaroni they were having for dinner still warm on the stove, waiting for the ice cream he’d never deliver. A sudden flash of panic came over him as he realized that he may never have the movie night with her. He sniffled, wiping furiously at his watering eyes.

“No,” he told himself. “Don’t cry.”

“Pardon me,” said a soft voice behind him.

Peter looked up. A woman stood at the edge of the curb. Peter noticed her shoes first, perched delicately along the curb next to him. They were old and worn and she wore thick stockings that made her swollen ankles look that much bigger. As he looked up towards her face, he noticed that her coat was buttoned tightly over her pregnant belly and she wore a felt hat over her carefully curled hair. She smiled at him as he stumbled to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m in the way.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” the woman replied. “It’s just—well, are you all right? You see, you just looked so sad sitting there and you look awfully young—”

“I’m seventeen,” he cut in. He blushed. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I’m fine. I promise.”

“That coat’s a little big for you,” the woman asked.

“It’s okay.”

The woman’s shoulders sank a little, her features shifting into a look of pity and care. “It’s not yours, is it?” she pressed.

Peter’s eyes widened and he struggled to control his features and stop himself from looking incredibly guilty. “I, um…”

“It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me.”

He shook his head. “I’m not a thief,” he insisted. “I swear. I’m, like, the exact opposite of a thief. I just...I was cold.”

She held out a gloved hand, resting it on his arm. “Are you lost? Wherever are your parents?”

He swallowed, feeling the tears prickling at his eyes. The full force of the knowledge that he had no one now, not even at May, hit him like a tidal wave. He was more alone than he had ever been. He felt the sob burst out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“Oh, darling, don’t cry,” the woman said. “It’s all right.” She pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to Peter. “Are you all alone?” He wiped at his face, nodding miserably, as she pulled him against her side. It was a gesture so maternal and familiar, that he couldn’t help but cry a little harder, the ache for something familiar, for home, for  _ May  _ became almost unbearable. “Now, look, are you telling me you don’t have any parents? Family? No one at all?”

He couldn’t tell her the truth—that he had an aunt who he adored waiting for him at home in 2018—she would think he was insane. Peter wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t insane, but he was fairly confident it wasn’t a dream. The place where he’d pinched himself still ached. Sighing, he looked up at the woman and shook his head. “No, ma’am. No one.” 

She sighed. “Oh, dear. Well, why don’t you come with me? We’ll get you fed and find you a place to sleep tonight. Now, how does that sound?” She squeezed his arm a little, hugging him tighter. Her coat was warm and smelled like gardenias.

Peter looked up at her. Some distant, childish part of his brain screamed about “stranger danger”, but his “spider sense” remained dormant. No warnings raised the hairs on his neck or sent anxiety zinging up his spine. The woman in front of him was just that—a woman, offering him food and a bed out of the kindness of her heart. Sniffling, Peter nodded, offering the handkerchief back to her and letting her pull him forward.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I describe the process of going to shul in too much detail? I feel like there's too much detail.   
> In other news, I mostly disregarded what was playing at the movies in December 1941, but I made sure to get the parsha correct because my priorities are all over the place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a brief update of a chapter before I start to get into it

Peter woke up shivering. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he reached up to wipe it away, his hand getting tangled in the sheets. He struggled, yanking his arm free and scrambling to sit up. The quilt he was tucked under felt heavy and had the sharp, acidic smell of box detergent. Blearily, he blinked, taking in the patchwork on it, then looking down at his button-up pajama shirt. It took him a moment to realize why that was strange about it—it wasn’t his. “Wha—what?” Looking up, he took in the room around him. The plain wallpaper, the drawings tacked to the wall, the faux suede bedside lamp, the baseball glove, the toy army men arranged along the dresser, and the red cowboy hat—none of it was familiar.

Neither was the little boy, who looked to be about seven years old, sleeping in a nest of blankets on the floor, mouth open as he gently snored. He was missing baby teeth.

“Oh, you’re awake.” Peter’s gaze snapped up toward the voice, head spinning. The kind woman from outside the department store stood in the bedroom door, wrapped in a bathrobe. She padded across the room, stepping over the little boy on the floor to kneel at the bedside. He heard her groan a little, holding onto her pregnant belly as she levered herself down to the floor. Soft, early morning light slipped through the curtains, painting her in warm yellows and gold. She smiled gently at Peter as he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. “You were out in the cold for too long,” she whispered. “You passed out in the taxi last night. I had to have Melvin from next door carry you inside.”

Pulling a thermometer out of her bathrobe pocket, she held it up, waiting until he reflexively opened his mouth. He took it, sitting still as she pressed first the back of her hand and then her cheek to his forehead. It was familiar, something Aunt May had done dozens of times when he was sick. He looked up towards the ceiling, blinking until his eyes were dry again. Three minutes passed in silence as the woman kept time on her wristwatch. On the floor next to her, the little boy snuffled and turned over. She huffed out a small laugh, before pulling the thermometer from Peter’s mouth. “99 degrees,” she said. “Still a bit hot. Well, how do you feel?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” he said. His voice sounded rough, dry. His teeth chattered as he shivered.

The woman leveled him a look that suggested she didn’t believe him. It reminded him so much of Aunt May that he had to force himself not to squirm underneath her gaze. She watched his obvious discomfort for a moment before cracking a smile. “How about we play a little game?” she said. “I’ll ask you a question, then you answer, and then you can ask me a question. We get to know each other. How’s that sound?”

Nervously, Peter nodded.

“I’ll go first, shall I?” she said. “How about we start with something simple? Will you tell me your name?”

“Oh, um, Peter,” he said. “I’m Peter Parker.”

“All right. Now it’s your turn.”

He looked down, picking at the quilt. “What’s your name?”

“Betty Shapiro,” she replied, sticking out a pale hand. Peter took it, shaking awkwardly. “How do you do, Peter?”

“Oh, um, good?” He looked at her, her smiling face, her bright eyes. She looked back at him, patient and smiling. “Was that the question? Is it my turn?”

She laughed. “No, but I’ll let you take another turn anyway.”

He nodded, looking over her shoulder towards the bedroom door. He could see a bit of a hallway and a sliver of the bathroom door from where he sat. A black and white wedding photo hung in the hall next to a gold-lettered ketubah, and a department store photo of a toddler with thick, curly hair and wide, brown eyes. Peter looked down at the little boy still sleeping on the floor beside Mrs. Shapiro, taking in the tousled curls. Everything about the photos, the bedroom, Mrs. Shapiro, felt domestic and lived-in. “Where am I?” he asked.

“Brownsville,” she replied.

“I’m in Brooklyn?”

“Mmhmm. My apartment to be exact.” She stroked the little boy’s hair, who batted at her with a sleepy fist. “It’s just the two of us right now.” That statement sent a pang of homesickness through his chest. It was something May had said to him over and over since Ben’s death. _It’s just you and me._ She had said it as reassurance, she had said it in sorrow, she had shouted at to him after he’d done something dangerous.

“Oh, don’t look so glum. Davey and I are all right,” Mrs. Shapiro said, misinterpreting his expression. “Now, I know they say to starve a fever, but I promised to feed you. How about breakfast?”

Peter’s stomach gurgled loudly as if in reply, and he pressed a palm against his belly, blushing. His hand shook slightly, from the fever and low blood sugar. Yesterday’s lunch had been interrupted by a domestic dispute, so he’d been looking forward to the mac ‘n’ cheese May had been preparing for dinner. “Breakfast would be awesome,” he replied. He pushed the feeling of homesickness aside. He could address that—and how to get back home—after he’d eaten something.

Heaving herself up, Mrs. Shapiro poked at the little boy with her toe. He sprang up, wildly waving a shiny, silver cap gun around in his hand. “Where’re they?” he slurred, blinking wildly. “I’ll get ‘em, the varmints!”

“You want some vittles, Hopalong?” Mrs. Shapiro teased. The boy rubbed sleep from his eyes, nodding frantically. “Why don’t you and Peter go wash up?”

She slipped out of the room. Peter could hear a pan being set on a burner and quiet _click click click_ of the gas stove. Another soft sound and a radio rose quietly to life, playing the morning news. Peter looked back at the boy, who stood up, tripping slightly on the blankets around his ankles. His curls sprung up wildly as he scratched at his head, studying Peter with a suspicious, pouting glare. Peter noticed that a few of his knuckles were bruised and he had a scab on the bridge of his nose that looked like it’d been picked at. “Who’re you?” he demanded. His toy pistol hung by his side and he thumbed the hammer. Peter could hear the angry, ratcheting sound as it snapped into place, waiting to be fired. “Listen here, I’m the man of the house—my papa said so! So no funny stuff!”

Peter raised his hands in surrender. “No funny stuff. Got it.” He sniffled, and coughed harshly into his shoulder.

“You still sick?” the boy sneered. Peter shrugged as the boy barreled on, chattering away at lightning speed. “I saw Melvin carry you in. You were mumbling all sorts of crazy stuff about ants and spiders. Shirley Spagnolo at school is scared of spiders. She screams real loud. Melvin said he thought his little sister weighed more than you. I bet him a nickel I weighed more than you, but he said he wouldn’t give me the nickel even if I was. You aren’t some sissy, are you? Scared of bugs?”

“I’m not scared of bugs,” Peter said, still trying to wrap his mind around the flagrant sexism in the boy’s other statements.

“Your name Peter?” the boy asked. Peter nodded. The boy slowly uncocked the toy gun’s hammer, careful not to snap the orange paper cap that stuck out from its silver canister. “My name’s Davey. You can follow me now. Mama makes me wash before I eat.”

After scrubbing his hands with bar soap, Peter followed Davey out to the apartment’s tiny kitchen where Mrs. Shapiro was sliding scrambled eggs onto plates next to cold latkes and applesauce. Peter sank into the empty seat nearest the stove, resting his hands on the unfamiliar porceliron tabletop. A glass of milk appeared in front of him, and he mumbled a thank you. A newspaper set on the table caught his attention and he pulled it forward and stared at the date at the top— _Monday December 22, 1941_. The headline took up half the page and screamed about troops battling Japanese forces outside of Manila while smaller articles written in terse, snappy style told him about sunk steamers and aircraft carriers and new military drafts.

A flash of memory from history class struck Peter. He could see the teacher standing in front of the classroom of bored freshman, standing dramatically on a chair in front of the whiteboard, gesticulating wildly with his Expo marker. “December 7, 1941, a day which will live on in infamy!” It hadn’t seemed unimportant to Peter then, and he’d remembered doodling cartoons of Spider-Man in the margins of his notebook. Now, though, it was vital information. He had landed himself right at the beginning of America’s foray into World War II.

Peter pressed a hand against his heart, feeling a bit sick. “Mrs. Shapiro?” he asked. “Mr. Shapiro wasn’t at Pearl Harbor was it?”

“Goodness no!” Mrs. Shapiro said, dropping the eggs and latkes in front of him. “He’s at training in Pensacola! He’s perfectly safe.”

“My papa flies airplanes for the Navy,” Davey announced. “He told me he’s gonna go stop all of those bad guys! What’s your papa do?”

“Um, my dad’s dead,” Peter replied.

“Are you an orphan?” Davey asked.

“Davey, stop it!” Mrs. Shapiro snapped.

“Gee whiz, I didn’t mean nothing by it,” Davey argued. “And he’s not sore about it—are you, Peter?”

Looking up at Mrs. Shapiro, Peter shook his head. He was pretty sure he was letting himself be bullied by a first grader. “It’s okay. I don’t really remember my parents anymore.” Mrs. Shapiro looked at him again, with that same look of pity and care she’d given him standing on a curb outside a department store in Queens. Peter looked away, certain if he didn’t he would cry all over again. The news ended and the radio began playing the same sort of old-fashioned dance music that Peter had heard standing in front of the radio repair shop. Except, he realized, it wasn’t old-fashioned. It was brand new music. It sounded like an orchestra to him, full of soft horns and steady drums, and the quavering voice of a man, singing about love. Peter could feel Mrs. Shapiro staring at him as he stared down at his eggs. He knew she was trying to take him apart, to understand who he was, what his secrets were. Peter wasn’t dumb enough to believe she would let him stay without any more questions—and he certainly got the feeling she’d let him stay. He knew that he could reveal nothing. He wasn’t about to fade away, like Marty and the photograph. No, he had two goals: keep quiet, get back home.

The question, of course, was how.


	3. Chapter 3

The Franklin Expedition had been unprepared for the harsh cold and icy wilderness they found themselves trapped in. Their supplies were limited, their knowledge even more so. Peter, on the other hand, was the three time winner of the Midtown High Annual Science Fair and—thanks to the three extra credit projects he’d completed with Mr. Stark—he currently had As in psychics, chemistry, engineering, and the programming elective he’d picked up this semester. He wasn’t like the Franklin’s men. He wasn’t even like anyone from 1941. He was Peter Parker, gifted student, and he had a smart phone and superpowers. 

Peter knew that the first trick would be to find out how he ended up in the past without tipping anyone off or, more likely, getting himself committed. Using his fingernails, his Swiss Army Knife, and nails he shaved down to make a decent screwdriver, he pulled the screen away from his Starkphone, whispering a small goodbye to Karen and all the photos he had saved on it, and began taking stock of the parts he had. With any luck, he could scrounge the parts to turn his phone into a device to detect space-time anomalies. If Mr. Stark could build an entire Iron Man suit in a cave, how hard could jerry-rigging a phone be? 

He made his notes on sheets of paper he stole from Davey’s school things, drew diagrams on the backs of receipts and butcher paper he found in the Shapiro’s kitchen, and hid it all behind the dresser, waking up early to work on it in secret and pretending to go back to sleep before anyone woke up. He lived his life quietly, trying not to draw attention towards himself. He washed his own dishes, did his own laundry in the bathroom sink, never asked for seconds, helped Davey with his homework, and generally kept his head down. Mrs. Shapiro had offered him a bed and food, and he knew that if he lost them, then he’d end up like Armitage—frozen on the New York City streets. 

So, he tread carefully. 

On the third day of his life in 1941, Peter snuck back into the bed that he and Davey shared, batted the kid’s feet away from his face and pretended to go back to sleep. He woke up, gasping for air, coughing and wheezing, as Davey bounced on his chest. “Peter, Peter! Get up!” Slowly, Peter cracked one eye open. Davey, in his complete cowboy get up, was sitting on Peter’s stomach,shaking his shoulders. “Get up, it’s Christmas!”

“B—but...Jewish?” Peter said, stupidly. 

Davey was already racing out of the room, shooting his cap gun wildly into the air while Mrs. Shapiro shouted at him to “cut that racket out!” Easing himself up onto his elbows, Peter blinked blearily, squinting at the dresser where he could see the faint outline of his notes tucked there. Groaning, he crawled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen where Mrs. Shapiro was boiling a pot of coffee and frying eggs. He grunted a good morning at her and dropped down into a kitchen chair, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. 

Davey danced around the living room, re-enacting a fantastic battle, using the furniture and radio as cover from the imaginary bullets of his enemy. “Mama, now? Now, Mama?” he asked, bounding over to the kitchen table to lean deep into Peter’s space. 

“All right, Hopalong,” Mrs. Shapiro replied. “Go fetch it.” 

Racing away to the master bedroom, Davey returned a moment later, holding out a box, wrapped in silver paper and tied in red ribbon. Peter blinked down at the box and then up at Mrs. Shapiro. “I don’t understand.” 

“You weren’t here with us for Chanukah,” she explained. “We thought you might want something for Christmas.” 

“Oh, ma’am, I can’t! I mean—it’s very nice of you but—look, you’re not obligated—” 

“Who said anything about obligated? It’s a gift, Peter,” Mrs. Shapiro replied. “You’ve been a very wonderful guest these past few days. We like you. We wanted to give you a gift.” 

Swallowing nervously, he nodded, carefully unwrapping the gift until he revealed a department store box. Pulling off the flimsy cardboard lid, he stared down at a grey suit, white shirt, and long striped tie. His hand automatically came up to touch his sink-washed t-shirt, before blinking up at Mrs. Shapiro in shock. “This is too much.” 

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Shapiro said. “Now there’s a pair of new shoes and a coat in the hall closet for later, but why don’t you go try those on now? See if they fit.” 

Nodding dumbly, Peter stumbled to the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Leaning against the counter, he stared into the mirror and let out a long slow breath. Mrs. Shapiro had bought him a suit—a brand new set of clothing, and shoes and a coat. In the mornings, she made him breakfast, and, once, when he woke up to work on his space-time anomaly detector, he found the blankets pulled up to his chin and tucked firmly in. “This is bad,” Peter told his reflection. He couldn’t understand it. He’d kept his head down, he’d been good—who would bond with a teenage boy after just three days? What if by staying with the Shapiros, if by his very existence and interaction with them, he let slip some bit of information that changed the very course of human history? He couldn’t let that happen! 

Staring down at the box of clothes, he sighed. Mrs. Shapiro had bought him the gift out of the kindness of her heart—he couldn’t turn her down. 

He got dressed. The shirt and suit jacket fit comfortably, and the pants just a bit loose, but when he stared into the bathroom mirror, he couldn’t look away. Without his t-shirt and jeans, he looked different. He looked like he belonged. 

“I gotta finish the detector,” he told himself, and bravely stepped out of the bathroom. 

“My, don’t you look so handsome!” Mrs. Shapiro said. “Though...I’ll go get you one of Mr. Shapiro’s belts. It’ll be a fine thing for you to lose your pants out on the street!” She disappeared into her bedroom, returning with a brown leather belt a moment later. “There, that should do it!” 

“You didn’t have to do this, ma’am,” Peter said. 

“You’re a fine boy, Peter,” Mrs. Shapiro said. “When we met a few days ago, I had a good feeling about you. My home is your home, for as long as you need.” She smiled softly and kissed his cheek. “Merry Christmas, Peter. Now, let’s sit down, and have a nice breakfast and then you and Davey could pick out two pictures to see.” 

Peter shook his head. “Oh, no, you’ve already done so much!” 

Davey punched his arm. “No, dummy, it’s Christmas! We always go to the movies on Christmas and, then, we get chop suey at Mr. Wong’s.” 

“Oh!” 

So, Peter and Davey leant over the newspaper, arguing over what movies they wanted to see. Or, rather, Davey argued while Peter tried to calmly negotiate himself out of seeing _Dumbo_. He had heard plenty of lectures about the blatant racism in early Disney cartoons from MJ and could never really manage to have a good time watching them after. In the end, they agreed that they would see Peter’s movie first and then follow it with a _Hopalong Cassidy_ movie for Davey. 

The movie tickets themselves were a quarter each. “A quarter? But, like, really, a quarter?” Peter asked, over and over, until the nickel bag of popcorn distracted him. Mrs. Shapiro gave him weird looks, and Peter had to force himself to be quiet and act natural because spending a dollar and twenty-five cents to see two movies was totally normal and _he_ was the weird one. He couldn’t wait to tell Ned about it. 

Peter had picked his movie from the brief description in the newspaper, and as he settled into the long opening credits, chewing on his popcorn, he let himself relax—just a bit—between Davey and Mrs. Shapiro. And, then, because he was still feeling raw from missing May and Mr. Stark and Ned and MJ, and because the movie was sappy, he cried. He cried at the speeches the priest in the movie gave, he cried because the boys were mistreated, he cried when something wonderful happened, and something sad happened. He heard Davey call him a “sissy” under his breath, but Peter caught him crying, too, when the dog died. Davey’s movie was much more cheerful. No, not cheerful—fun, corny. Peter could tell it was cheaply made, with a wobbly camera and a lot of over the top acting, but it was fun and exciting and Davey came out babbling a mile a minute about the shooting and the when they caught the bad guys. 

“When I grow up, I’m gonna be a cowboy! I’ll shoot those ol’ varmint cattle rustlers!” Davey announced, bouncing down the street on their way to Mr. Wong’s. It was dark, and cold with a sharp wind whistling down the road, propelled along by the cars and buses. Peter shivered, tugging the collar up on his new wool coat. It was warm and felt expensive, so Peter only felt more guilty. He had to get home. He couldn’t keep living off Mrs. Shapiro’s charity. 

“Here we are, Mr. Wong’s!” Mrs. Shapiro sing-songed. 

Peter looked up. The small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant had yellow lettering painted in its window declaring that it had the best chop suey and cheapest Peking duck in Brooklyn. The glass was fogged with steam, the heat of the shop hitting Peter like a wave as he stepped inside. The tiny room was crowded with people, all talking and eating, some with their tables pushed together, some sitting on each others laps. The servers—two petite girls and a frazzled looking woman—weaved their way around the tables, depositing plates of egg foo yung and chicken and soup and duck in front of the chatty patrons. It was a fire marshal’s nightmare. Sinking down into a chair next to Davey, he allowed himself to be introduced to a couple next to them, a girl and her boyfriend behind them, the neighbors from two floors above them. It seemed that half the neighborhood had crowded into Mr. Wong’s to nosh on chop suey together. 

“Oh, Betty, who is this fine young man?” cooed an old woman with a thick, Yiddish accent. “Aza a fayen punim!” 

Mrs. Shapiro laughed. “This is Peter, he’ll be staying with us for a while.” 

“Aun vi alt ir, yung mensch?” she said. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Yiddish.” 

The woman looked up at Mrs. Shapiro, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “A goy?” she asked. She looked Peter up and down, appraising. “Ach, es is nokh a fayen punim.” She patted Peter’s cheek and smiled. He smiled back—he had to finish that space-time detection device.

  
  
  
  


Peter had never been to church except for the odd funeral or christening. He was fairly certain that May’s family was Catholic but May insisted that the church was an oppressive institution towards women and told him he didn’t have to go. Which was fine by Peter, because he didn’t want to get up early on Sunday just to sit in a small, pew and sing boring songs and eat bland wafers that tasted like cardboard. He had happily grown up a godless heathen, going to a STEM school, and raised by a woman who kept two of O’Keeffe’s most vulva-like flower paintings in her bathroom and a copy of the Kama Sutra under her bed. Stepping in the synagogue on the corner was a culture shock. 

The synagogue that the Shapiros attended was Reform, and families sat clustered together in the pews. The massive ceiling rose multiple stories into the air and the sanctuary space stretched forward towards the bima where the elaborately carved Torah ark hung on the wall. The space was a bit cold, but was already beginning to warm as people began to file in and find their seats. 

“What do you think?” Mrs. Shapiro asked. 

“It’s...big,” Peter replied, awkwardly attempting to adjust the yarmulke pinned to the top of his head. The bobby pins tugged painfully at his hair. 

It _was_ big. Big and beautifully decorated, but Peter couldn’t help but think about the diagrams he’d left tucked behind the dresser that morning when Mrs. Shapiro had shook him and Davey awake. He was wasting precious time! He could be setting off a domino effect that could destroy everything! 

“Hiya.” Peter jumped in surprise and spun around to see a tall boy about his age, laughing. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook ya. Name’s Melvin. Melvin Himmelfarb. I was the one who carried you in from the taxi.” 

Blushing, Peter shook Melvin’s hand. “That’s embarrassing. Sorry about that.” 

“I’m happy to help,” he said. “What’s your name?” 

“Peter Parker.” 

The two boys studied each other for a moment. Melvin was athletic and wiry looking, with a thick mop of black curls he had pasted down with product and topped with a knit yarmulke. “The talk in the building is that you’re a goy, probably new in town. Is that right?” Peter nodded. “Say, why don’t you let me show you around tonight? I know a great little dance club in the Village. Good music, lots of pretty girls. What do you say?” 

“I—” 

A man at the bima suddenly started singing, his voice echoing across the room. Melvin patted Peter’s shoulder. “Lemme know after,” he stage-whispered, before taking his seat. 

Sinking into his seat beside Mrs. Shapiro, Peter tried to pay attention. He’d never been to a synagogue before, and he felt that he should probably be respectful and learn as much as he could but his device! The work he could be doing! He began to wish that May had pumped the brakes on second wave feminism for just a second so he could have got some practice in sitting still and quiet for long periods of time while people sang in languages you didn’t understand. 

Finally, the Rabbi stepped up to the little wooden podium, pressed his prayer shawl to the open Torah in front of him, kissed the shawl, and then began to sing in Hebrew. Peter jumped when everyone else in the synagogue sang briefly back—even Davey, though he mumbled it. 

After, the man announced in English what he would talking about. “But first, I want to reflect back on last week’s Torah portion,” the Rabbi said. “To Parsha Miketz, where we find ourselves with Yosef in Egypt. Friends, with many of our loved ones leaving to fight evil across the sea, I would like to reflect on the promise of Yosef’s life. That a man, lost in a perilous and cruel new land, was blessed for his faithfulness and goodness.” Peter sat up slightly. He wasn’t too sure who Yosef was, but he could certainly do with some advice on what do when stuck in new lands. The Rabbi seemed to see him shift and smiled at him before opening his hands towards the congregation. “Do you recall what Yosef named his sons?” the answer rippled in a whisper through the crowd. Every adult seemed to know. “Manashe and Ephraim,” the Rabbi continued, nodding. “Manashe and Ephraim—‘God has made me forget my hardship’ and ‘God has made me fruitful’. What comforting names. Joseph looked to a better future, just as we do in this dark time.” The congregation nodded. Peter sat forward—he was very interested in looking to the future. A very specific and not quite as metaphorical future, but a future nonetheless. “It is a dangerous thing to focus on the past.  How can we pursue HaShem’s desire for us and achieve what we must, when we look back over our shoulders?” 

“Oh,” Peter said. At the bima, the Rabbi droned on, moving on to “this week’s parsha”, but Peter wasn’t listening. He hadn’t taken one moment to question _why_ he was in 1941. Every thought he’d had from the moment he’d woken up, shivering in a snowdrift, was focused simply on getting back home. May needed him. Mr. Stark needed him. Ned needed him. MJ probably didn’t need him, but he hoped she wanted him around. But what about 1941? Peter wasn’t one to believe in fate, but stranger things had happened. He’d fought a big purple man, once, so was the idea that he was stranded in the past for a reason really that unbelievable? 

Excusing himself from Mrs. Shapiro’s side, Peter wove his way through the crowd of people who had crammed together in the synagogue’s basement for “oneg Shabbat”. He found Melvin sitting with a few other teenagers and his little sister at a corner table. “Oh, hey, Peter!” 

“Hey,” Peter mumbled, suddenly feeling nervous. 

“Consider my offer?” 

“Um, yeah, it sounds fun,” Peter said. “I love...dancing.” 

A girl next to Melvin snorted out a laugh. Peter ignored her. 

“That’s great,” Melvin said, ignoring her. “How ‘bout I come get you after Havdalah?” 

Peter had to wait until that evening to figure out what “Havdalah” was, when he stood a step back from Mrs. Shapiro and a fidgety Davey as they sang a song that Peter didn’t know the words to and lit a fancy candle. In the darkness, with just the single candle, Peter mimicked the way they examined their hands and their shadows in the light. The moment stretched on, and Peter took a slow, even breath. In and out. In and out. His eyes twitched towards the door, as he thought about looking back over his shoulder. Not one minute after Mrs. Shapiro extinguished the candle in the little glass of wine, there was a heavy hammering at the apartment door. 

“Gud vokh, Mrs. Shapiro!” Melvin said, barrelling into the room and latched onto Peter’s arm. “I’m taking Peter out.” 

“Oh, not too late,” Mrs. Shapiro said, following them into the apartment hall. 

“No promises,” Melvin said with a wink. 

  
  
  


Aggie’s was a tiny dance club in the heart of the Village. On a Saturday night, it was full of young people all crushed together, dancing slowly. A small brass brand was perched on the stage, the horns tempered and soft while a pretty woman sang a dreamy love song into a battered microphone. The patrons were a mixed group—Jews, Italians, Irish, and African American teens—which comforted Peter. It looked more like the diverse New York Peter he was used to. He watched everyone silently, his back to the brick wall at a tiny corner table. Somewhere in the middle of the crowd, he could see the top of Melvin’s curly head, and catch glimpses of the red-headed girl who had her cheek pressed against his. 

The slow song ending, Melvin swaggered back to Peter’s corner table. “You know her?” Peter asked. 

“Who, Phyllis? Sure, she’s a doll,” he replied. “I’m thinking about asking her to go steady.” 

A new song started, brighter and faster than before and Phyllis slipped through the crowd. “Who’s your friend, Mel?” she asked. She had a big smile on her face, her eyes locked intently on Peter. He barely heard Melvin introduce them, and it took a moment longer to realize that Phyllis had her hand held out expectantly. “I said: you wanna dance?” 

Peter nodded dumbly, letting Phyllis lead him into the crowd. He could smell the other dancers around him, Phyllis’s perfume and cold cream, and the soda everyone was drinking. Someone elbowed him as they spun their partner. Phyllis was jostled, her heel coming down roughly on his shoes. “Relax,” she told him. 

“I don’t really know how to dance.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll make you look good.” She took his arm, encouraging him to rock in time with music, tapping at his toes to get him to shuffle one way or another. She spun and shimmied around him, and Peter watched her. She was pretty and bold and carefree and made him think of MJ. They’d danced at Sadie Hawkins, and they ended up doing increasingly dumb dance moves to make each other laugh. It had been nice. But Phyllis was not MJ. 

A breath tightened inside his chest. The dancers around him seemed to squeeze in tighter towards him. The myriad of scents, the wall of sound from the band hit Peter like a wave. Phyllis’s grip on his hands felt like vices, squeezing his fingers tight, tighter. Gasping, he pulled away. “I’m sorry, excuse me.” 

Elbowing himself through the crowd, he tripped up the stairs and out onto the street. The air was crisp and cold, a light dusting of snow floating down, illuminated by the street lights. The green neon letters of Aggie’s sign flickered overhead as he bent over, clutching his knees and gasping for air. Taxis and cars whizzed by and pedestrians walked by, their disinterest in the panicking teenager strangely comforting—it was just so typically New York. Slowly, Peter practiced his breathing, like May had taught him when he was little and tried not to think of the the frozen bodies of the Franklin Expedition. 

“Hey.” It’s Melvin, silhouetted against the streetlight, holding out Peter’s coat. He surveyed Peter quietly, before jerking his head up the street. “C’mon. Let’s go get some grub.” 

They walked two blocks to a hole-in-the-wall diner where Melvin ordered them cheese blintzes and egg cremes. “All right, talk. I can’t bring you back to Mrs. Shapiro all mopey.” 

Peter shrugged. “I can’t tell you. It’s complicated. I just...I have a big decision to make. And both of them feel like the wrong one. Y’know?” 

“Sure, pal,” Melvin replied. “Eat your blintz.”


	4. Chapter 4

Stretching on a rooftop, his breath hot behind a red handkerchief, Peter scanned the streets below. His fingers tingled in the cold, red and raw from clinging to the sides of buildings and bridges for the better part of two hours. Breathing in the crisp winter air, Peter looked back over his shoulder towards Brownsville and the Shapiros’ building. 

It had been the fourth night in a row that his mind had kept him awake, turning over ideas for the space-time detector, stewing over the Rabbi’s words about not looking back over his shoulder, and doing his best to not think about the Franklin Expedition. Lying on the floor in front of the radio, Peter had tried to tamp down the panic and indecision that had him doing nothing at all but staying up too late listening to _The Shadow_ and a half dozen other programs until the stations stopped broadcasting at midnight. The shivering chorus of violins creeped out of the radio speaker and into the living room. A menacing laugh echoed, declaring in a slow, sibilant voice that he knew what evil lurks in the hearts of men. It had been dark in the Shapiros’ apartment. Mrs. Shapiro had gone to bed, leaving Peter and Davey to stay up to listen to the radio for one more hour. On the sofa, Davey shifted, yanking at the blanket over his shoulders and shoving his thumb in his mouth with a sigh, his other hand still clutching his toy gun. It was a school day tomorrow, and Peter knew that she would probably make him walk Davey to school to try and discourage him from staying up late again. It didn’t matter, though—Peter couldn’t sleep. 

Building the space-time detector was not going well. The StarkPhone was the best phone on the market, with guts high-tech enough to run an AI (assuming the user had an AI), but, in pieces, Peter had no idea how to reassemble it to detect to space-time anomalies, _especially_ when he had no idea what sort of measurable data a space-time anomaly had. Sure, he’d been to space—something which he tried to spend as little time thinking about as possible—and through the wizard man’s weird portal thingy but he’d been pretty focused on not dying at the time and hadn’t thought to take notes. 

If there was anything that Peter was reasonably good at, though, it was studying and lying. It was getting easier to feel like Peter Parker, Greatest Generation, instead of Peter Parker, angsty Gen Z. He made a habit of reading the paper in the morning and paying attention to the way people spoke in the building. The mix of Yiddish and slang that was spoken gave his own speech a sense of community—when he walked the streets of Brooklyn, talked to people, they now heard a Brooklyn Jew instead of Queens Something-or-Other. They didn’t know that he practiced it all in the mirror at night, forcing every phrase and word and affectation deep into his brain. 

Lying on the carpet, he’d imagined curling up on the couch with May. She would have ordered take-out, and they’d talk, _Star Trek_ re-runs droning on in the background. Closing his eyes, Peter placed his own hand on his head and pretended it was May’s fingers scraping gently along his scalp. An ache had grown in his chest, followed by the guilt he felt pining after his old life. Mrs. Shapiro had been nothing but kind to him, had fed and clothed and housed him—he should be grateful. Why couldn’t he be grateful? Frustrated, he’d scratched at the empty patch of skin on his wrist where his web shooters usually sat. 

The idea clicked into place, splitting like atoms, exploding into a half dozen ideas in seconds. It was perfect! Without a solid idea on how to reconfigure the StarkPhone, he couldn’t leave the 1942. So, like the Rabbi said, he had to look to the future—the future he had in WWII Brooklyn. And, if while scrounging for webshooter parts, he happened to stumble upon something that could get him back home to the _future_ future, then he was just killing two birds with one stone. No guilt necessary. 

Looking over at the messy sofa, he’d seen Davey’s red handkerchief. Big and wide, it was the one he wore when playing cowboy and it fit over Peter’s face perfectly. If he was going to build webshooters, then he would need a new suit. Shoving the handkerchief in his pocket, Peter snapped the radio off, and stood up. “Davey, time for bed.” He pulled Davey up until the kid had wrapped himself around Peter like a possum, drooling slightly as he sucked on his thumb. It took a few more minutes for Peter to peel Davey’s grip away from his shirt and tuck him in before he stumbled back into the living room. 

The apartment was silent. On the wall, a clock ticked monotonously on, while above them he could hear the Himmelfarbs arguing in Yiddish. Outside, New York City was a wall of sound—cars, music, dogs barking, sirens wailing all rattled through the streets of Brownsville and entered the apartment, muffled only by the fire escape window. Sliding the window up, Peter had leaned out, hands on the icy metal of the fire escape, and exhaled. “Okay.” 

The euphoria of leaping off one building just to scale another, of breathing through the sore muscles and exhaustion was exactly what Peter had needed. Even without webshooters, or a real suit, he was still stronger than any teenager had any right to be, so being Spider-Man wasn’t too difficult. It was a quiet night, and all he’d managed to do was punch out a mugger and run away as the lady started screaming, but the thrill was still there. The rush of swooping in and saving the day still left him feeling giddy and unstoppable. 

Below him, were surprisingly busy. A few people hailed cabs, slipped into movies, came tripping out of dance clubs. The city glowed and hummed, street lamps lit up the streets that stretched like a spider’s web underneath his feet. A wild tumble of familiar noise rose up to the rooftops, and Peter took a slow lungful of air, matching his breaths to the cacophonous symphony of the city. His eyes closed, he tried, just for a moment, to pretend he was back in 2018. 

A yelp. A grunt. An angry shout, “Hey, get back here!”

He snapped his eyes open. The street directly below him was mostly deserted but he could hear the echoes of shouts from blocks away. Fine hairs raised on his arms, tickling the sleeves of his coat. Letting out a slow breath that frosted in the air, he turned his hearing towards the voices. 

“No, stop! Please!” 

“How do you like it, huh?”

Peter took off running. He didn’t even fully realize that he’d reacted at all until he was mid-leap off the rooftop, landing hard on the pavement below. He froze, listening. Another yelp. Manic peels of laughter. He pushed off, racing down the street and skidding to a stop at the entrance to an alley, slush filling his shoes. The shadowy figures of three men wrestled in the alley. The first man was bent almost double, his meaty fist reigned down ferociously on a small man curled up on the ground. The man being attacked had his arms wrapped around his head, his legs kicking uselessly at the dirt and garbage as he tried desperately to scramble away from the beating. Crowding behind him was another man who cheered and threw insults, waving a bottle wrapped in a paper bag in one hand. 

Yanking his red handkerchief up over his mouth, Peter leapt into the alley. “Ah, guys, two against one? That’s not fair!”

The two attackers snapped their gaze towards him. Their eyes, shining in the strange light of a neon advertisement, were red and bloodshot. “Back off, pal, we just caught this spy here,” the first man slurred. 

Behind him, the small man uncurled, peeking out from the safety of his arms. Peter froze—he recognized the man. In the darkness, his mouth covered in blood that gushed from a broken nose, it was harder to recognize the round face and the dark, thick eyebrows. A pair of wire frame glasses lay a few feet away on the pavement, their lenses cracked, the wire of the temples twisted at an odd angle. “Mr. Fukuoka?” Beaten and bruised, Mr. Fukuoka looked nothing like the smiling man who ran the five-and-dime Davey occasionally dragged Peter into just a few blocks from their apartment. He pushed himself up, trembling and spitting blood. He looked at Peter’s masked face, his eyebrows knitting in confusions.  “I got this.” Peter said. “Run.”

“I don’t think so,” said the first attacker. 

Peter cracked his neck, then his knuckles—for the drama—and dove into the alley. Leaping off a trash can, he threw himself onto the bricks over the man’s head before springing off to kick him straight in the face. The man hit the ground hard as Mr. Fukuoka took the opportunity to run. Peter turned to the second man. “You wanna shot, big guy?” The man shook his head frantically. “All right, cool. Spread the word: anyone harms anyone innocent, if they even _think_ of doing a hate crime—Spider-Man will be there to stop them.” The man nodded. “Good, now scram.”

The man yanked up his friend, urging him quickly past Peter and rushing out of the alley and back onto the street. Peter watched them go, hurrying off in the opposite direction of Mr. Fukuoka. 

“Good job, Spider-Man.” 

  
  
 

“Did you read the paper this morning?” 

Peter blinked at Melvin, desperately trying to keep up the charade that he’d gotten more than three hours sleep the night before. His hands shook from the three cups of coffee he’d had to fight the urge to fall back into the bed he and Davey shared. In the mirror, he looked pale, his eyes dark and gaze unfocused. He’d seen similar darker rings around the raccoons that lived in the dumpster behind the apartment—maybe. “Huh?” 

“The paper,” Melvin repeated, slowly. He held up the crackly newspaper he was reading, tapping the headline of the article that took up a small sliver of page three: _Shadowy Spider Saves Local Shopkeeper._ “Some fella calling himself Spider-Man is going around breaking up fights.” 

“Huh, weird,” Peter replied, turning back to the mirror. His hands were sticky with Brylcreem as he fought to paste his curls down like Melvin’s. He’d been getting a few looks out and about when his hair was as wild as Davey’s, sticking out awkwardly underneath Mr. Shapiro’s felt hat. Melvin’s mother had given him the stink eye the last time he’d joined the Himmelfarbs for Shabbat dinner and Mrs. Shapiro had hinted heavily that his hair had been half the problem. 

Melvin snapped the paper, catching Peter’s eye in the mirror. “Doesn’t this interest your at all? New York has a real, live superhero! Like the comics!” 

Peter shrugged. 

Annoyed, Melvin held the paper up again. “Shopkeeper Tatsuo Fukuoka told _The Daily Bugle_ , ‘Since Pearl Harbor, people do not see me as an American. They do not defend me as a neighbor. Last night, this man saw me as worthy to defend. I am grateful to this Spider-Man.’” 

Exhaling a slow, even breath, Peter nodded. “That’s good.” 

Melvin shot him a flat, unimpressed look. “‘That’s good’ he says. Sheesh. Aren’t you even the least bit intrigued? A fella would think you’re from another planet or something.” 

“Maybe I am. Flash Gordon, eat your heart out,” he said, timidly trying on the comic reference for size. 

“You strike me more as a Dale,” Melvin teased. 

“Oh har har. Look who’s a comedian.”

“That’s me—regular Jack Benny,” Mel replied. They both sang the jingle, in garbled two-part harmony: _J-E-L-L-OOOOOO!_

Peter laughed. 

Melvin dropped the paper in the trash can, allowing Peter to breath a sigh of relief. Blinking back the bright shiny specks floating in his vision, he returned his focus to his hair, pointedly ignoring Melvin as he leaned against the door frame, arms crossed as he looked up at the dusty overhead light. “I’m thinking of inviting Phyllis to Perry Cohen’s wedding. What do you think, huh? Me, in my best suit, marching into the place, cute little redhead on my arm.”

“What would your mom say about you dating a goy?”

“Ma likes goyim. She likes you, doesn’t she?”

“Does she?” Peter challenged. 

Melvin waved the question away. “Who cares. And anyway—” He made a sound, a sigh and a whistle all in one, and rolled his eyes, exaggerated and lovesick. “—I like Phyllis. She sends me.”

Peter snorted, rinsing his hands off in the sink. The boy in the mirror had his curly hair parted to the side and held back by what seemed like pounds of Brylcreem, a shirt rumpled under a knitted sweater vest that was a size too big, and tired eyes. The long nights were starting to get to him, the act of playing Normal 1940s Teen becoming exhausting. It was forty minutes until sunset, and he knew that everyone was probably waiting for them upstairs at the Himmelfarbs’, but he had been through a few Shabbat meals now and knew he had a few more minutes. He just needed a moment. He scrubbed at his face with cold water. God, he was so tired. 

“Hey, Earth to Flash Gordon!” Peter looked up at Melvin. “You ready yet?”

“Yeah, sorry, got...distracted.”

 

  


The Himmelfarbs lived on the top floor and their apartment was slightly bigger and nicer than the Shapiros, but with half the building coming for Shabbat dinner, Peter still felt a bit like a sardine. “They’re talking about rounding up the German and Italians,” said Perry Cohen from 2C, elbowing Peter in the chest as he sawed viciously at his schnitzel. 

“They who?” asked his fiancee, Rachel Jankowitz. 

“I heard it was just the Japanese, seeing as how they were the ones to bomb us,” Davey said. Peter ogled—it always amazed and worried him how much Davey seemed to know about The War. Despite technically being a teenage vigilante himself, he was of the lofty opinion that kids should be kids. By the nervous grimace on Mrs. Shapiro’s face, she agreed with him. 

“Nah, they’re talking about everybody now—the US is full of spies!” Melvin replied. “How do you think that u-boat sunk those ships out past the Harbor? How do you think they got so close to New York?” 

Peter’s stomach twisted. That’s what the men who had beaten up Mr. Fukuoka had said—that they had caught a spy. He imagined Melvin—funny, friendly Melvin—bent over Mr. Fukuoka in the alley, fists raised and yelling drunkenly about spies.  Sure, he’d been to war but it had been with a bunch of superheroes and aliens. It had been terrifying and loud and he’d ached for days after, but it had been won with a snap of the fingers—just like that. Was this what real war was? Not playing keep-away with lasers and space aliens, but the slippery, dangerous sense that you could trust no one? That your neighbors wanted you dead? That your love for your nation now came before your love of your neighbor? Yes, this was a different kind of war, the kind he saw on tv that happened far away and not to him or anyone he knew. Except not anymore. 

“Nu? So, all Germans are spies now?” said Melvin’s uncle, Frank Himmelfarb. He was an older man, with a thick Yiddish accent. His intelligent eyes shone in the candle light as he leant forward. Peter wanted to tell him that his tie was in the buttered peas, but felt it wasn’t the time. “I’m a German. Am I a spy? You’re a German! Are _you_ a spy, Melvin?” 

“I’m an American.”

Peter squirmed uncomfortably.

Uncle Frank scoffed, dropping heavily back into his seat.

“Please, this is not a conversation for Shabbat!” Mrs. Himmelfarb said, looking flustered. “This is supposed to be a day of rest.” 

There was a long moment of silence. The men all looked angry and uncomfortable, the women annoyed. Peter looked down, pushing the potatoes around on his plate, doing his best to take slow, even breaths. 

Abruptly, Rachel Jankowitz started to cry. She dropped her face into her little hands, shoulders shuddering as she sobbed. “My aunt lives in Łódź.” Her voice was already hoarse and congested. She drew a short, shuddery breath, wiping furiously at her eyes with her handkerchief. “There hasn’t been a letter in two months.” Perry excused them, grabbing her coat and apologizing to Mrs. Himmelfarb. The dinner guests fell into an uncomfortable silence as the door shut behind them. A fork scraped on a plate, someone coughed—no one spoke. 

Picking at his potatoes, Peter made a resolution to himself. No more Mr. Fukuokas. No more Shabbat dinner arguments. No more nonsense about who was a spy, or who was an American. Peter may have dozed through most of history class but he was smart enough to know it was all bullshit. No German, or Italian, or Japanese-American citizen would ever have to fear walking the streets of Brooklyn, so long as Peter was there to protect them—so long as _Spider-Man_ was there to protect them.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter slid into the Shapiros' tiny kitchen, furiously tucking his borrowed shirt into his jeans, a slice of burnt Wonderbread held between his teeth. The radio trumpeted the news that Roosevelt was signing an executive order to protect the citizens of the United States while Davey wrestled with tightening the strap around his school books so they wouldn’t slide free. Mrs. Shapiro rushed into the kitchen, one hand cupped around her pregnant belly as she held out a dollar for Peter. “Here, buy me a newspaper, and see if you can find me some chop suey.” 

“But it’s not even 8:00am,” Peter replied, staring at the crumpled bill in his hand. 

Mrs. Shapiro leveled him a look. “The baby needs chop suey.”   


“O-oh, okay, gotcha.” 

She smiled at him, her eyes soft and fond. It made Peter squirm. It had barely been two months. She was getting too close to him and that wasn’t acceptable. Who knows what sort of ripple effect he was causing? He could be moments away from completely destroying the future!

The clock in the living room chimed and Mrs. Shapiro snapped to attention. “Jeepers! You’ll be late!” she said, grabbing Davey’s hat and wrenching it down around his ears. “Hurry now! Shoo!”

Davey tripped over his shoelaces as he rushed to the door, scrambling up to barrell his way down the stairs, Peter rushing after him and out onto the freezing Brooklyn streets. Peter could feel his socks grow soggy inside his sneakers as he sunk into the slush on the sidewalk. The half slice of toast he had left immediately turned cold in his hand and he shoved it in his mouth all at once to try to catch the last of the warmth, choking on the crumbs. He jogged after Davey, still coughing, as they caught up with a group of neighborhood boys, bundled in old coats and the new knit caps and gloves. 

The boys were rowdy, throwing wet, disgusting snowballs at each other, laughing, and shouting dares and insults and roughhousing. Peter was the only one in the group over ten years old, and he watched them with an eagle eye—he knew from walking them to and from school everyday that Jimmy could be mean, that Frank cried easy, and that the other boys sometimes ganged up on Georgie for no real reason. 

Peter had gotten the idea from Mr. Rogers and other old people in his building that the 1940s were a time of innocence for kids and heroics for men, but standing on the slushy sidewalk in 1941 Brooklyn, Peter couldn’t help but think that it was a bit more complicated than all that. The people were different. Sure, people were friendly enough, but 1941 was a long time before the Civil Rights Movement and second wave feminism, and sometimes Peter couldn’t help but be horrified at the things normal people said so casually. And, then there was  _ The War _ . It was all anyone ever talked about—on the radio, in newspapers, on the street, it was an inescapable topic. People discussed Pearl Harbor, the fighting in Bataan, what should be done about the Japanese people living in America, whose sons had enlisted, whose sons hadn't, who couldn’t, who was planning on it, and who had found the best trick to beat one test or another. All Peter could think about was about how many of them were gonna die. 

“Hey, Peter!” One of Davey’s friends, Toby Cohen, bumped into Peter, tugging eagerly at his coat sleeve. “Hey, Superman, pick me up!” 

“I don’t know, Toby, I’m kinda tired,” Peter teased. 

“Ah, gee, only for a minute! Just one minute!” 

“Well, I guess if it’s just one minute…” Peter grabbed Toby, a hand against the little boy’s chest and lifted him up over his head. He gave an exaggerated yawn, patting at his mouth like lifting Toby was the easiest thing in the world for him. Which it was. Toby shrieked, throwing his arms out as Peter walked along, Toby casually “flying” over the heads of the other boys, who all begged and pleaded for their turn. 

A bright peel of laughter bounced across the street, Peter’s superhearing picking it up even over the roar of traffic. His elbow buckled and he flailed, grabbing hold of Toby before the kid could brain himself on the sidewalk. “Sorry, buddy,” he mumbled, eyes still locked on the figure of the Japanese girl across the street. 

She was short, her black hair curled up into a halo around her face and pinned high in the back with a tortoise shell comb. Peter watched her as she smiled down at the little girl at her side, and led her quickly across the street, falling quietly in step beside him. Peter stiffened. His belly churned, but his senses didn’t warn him of any danger. It was just a pretty girl walking next to him. He tried to act cool, like pretty girls walked next to him all the time. Her gaze flicked over to him and back again as she walked regally forward. She reminded Peter of MJ—a brave face, chin out, proud. Blushing furiously, Peter looked down at their feet—her galoshes looked too small. 

They reached the schoolyard together. He could see her breath clouding the air out of the corner of his eye, and feel her hand accidentally-on-purpose bump his as they waved goodbye to the kids. Finally, she turned to him. “Fumiko Matsuda,” she said, sticking out her hand. 

“Peter Parker,” he replied. 

She nodded, nervously chewing at her cuticle. “You wanna walk me to school?” she blurted. 

“Um, sure.” 

He let her lead the way, down the street to the nearby high school. A few girls waved at her as they walked by, but she shifted away, giving them a sharp look that sent them scurrying away, laughing. Peter watched, wondering if girls in the ‘40s had some sort of secret code, or if he was just a little bit dumb—he was pretty sure MJ would say it was the latter. He wondered what she would think of him, agreeing to walk with another girl, their knuckles brushing gently, fingers reaching out to intertwine, pull away, and meet again. 

He tried to picture MJ’s face, but her features seemed softer. Was the chicken pox scar on cheek, or near her nose? Were her ears pierced? Did she have dimples? What did her laugh sound like again? Was this all it took to forget someone? Just two months? He tried to remember May, Ned, Mr. Stark. Everything seemed smudged, blurred. He tried to think of the songs on the radio, but could only think of Jimmy Dorsey’s ‘Amapola’—Melvin had been whistling it all week. The World War II Peter—the false Peter—was quickly consuming the real Peter. He tried to decide how he felt about that, but Fumiko touched his wrist again. 

“I see you sometimes,” she said. “You dig through the garbage behind my dad’s store. You always look sad.” 

Peter tried to smile at her. “It’s just my face.” 

“Why are you digging in the garbage?” 

“I—I build stuff,” he said, looking up and away, towards the roofs of the building around them. He thought about the half-built webshooters hidden behind the dresser in his and Davey’s room, and the sensation of swinging from the buildings. “It’s just for fun. I like science, y’know?” 

She nodded. “Me, too,” she said. “Science and anatomy. When I graduate, I’m going to join the Red Cross.” He nodded. A lot of girls talked about becoming nurses. “How come I don’t see you at school?” 

“Oh, I don’t go to school,” he replied, blushing. “I’m actually thinking about looking for a job for my mother—well, not my mother—Davey’s mother—but I guess she sorta adopted me now? I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t go to school and I wanna get a job because Mrs. Shapiro—Davey’s mom—is, uh, in the family way and I know that it’s hard for her to feed me and Davey and when the baby comes…” He trailed off, catching sight of the soft expression on Fumiko’s face. “What?” 

She shook her head. “Nothing. I just had a feeling I’d like you.” They stopped in front of the high school, the shrill school bell shrieking from inside the sagging brick facade. “Come by Matsuda’s Pharmacy sometime and I’ll show you where you can find better garbage for what you’re building.” 

Dumbly, he nodded. “O-okay.” 

Smiling, she skipped away, rushing over to a giggling group of girls on the school steps. He shoved his hands back into his pockets, and felt the crunch of the dollar bill. “Hey, wait!” he called. Fumiko turned to look at him. “Do you know where I can find chop suey this early?” 

She laughed. 

  
  
  


Peter burst through the door of the apartment, kicking off his sneakers and throwing his coat in the general direction of the coat rack. “Mrs. Shapiro!” he called. “I’m home!” He listened for her reply. There was silence, but in the kitchen, he could hear the radio playing a Yiddish jingle for  Moskowitz and Lupowitz and the clanking of dishes. Tripping over his too-long pants, he stumbled into the kitchen. “I couldn’t find chop suey, but Jeno’s was open so I got you some sauerkr—” 

He froze. 

There, sitting at the kitchen table, looking up at Mrs. Shapiro with devotion, was a man. He was dark haired, bright eyed, and wearing a pressed uniform. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes from Mrs. Shapiro, one hand still resting gently on her belly. “Hello,” he said. “You must be Peter.” 

Peter nodded, clutching the box of sauerkraut. Fermented juice leaked from the corner, dripping between his fingers and onto the linoleum floor. “Yessir. Peter Parker, sir.”    
  


“David Shapiro,” he said. 

“How do you do, Mr. Shapiro?”

Mr. Shapiro’s smile grew. “How do you do, Peter? I’ve heard so much about you.” 

Peter’s eyes widened, and he felt the blood drain from his face. Did Mr. Shapiro know about Peter wearing his clothes? Using his hair products? Eating their food? Had he somehow found out about his sneaking out at night? The experiments in the bathroom? Did he know that Peter was a goy? Would he have to leave? Where would he go? 

“Did Davey make it to school all right?” Mrs. Shapiro asked, cutting through Peter’s panic. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. He held out the sauerkraut and pulled the rumpled newspaper from his coat pocket. “Here. These are for you.” He dug deeper into his pant’s pocket, and pulled out a nickel and three pennies. “Here’s the change.” 

Mrs. Shapiro gave him a fond look, like Fumiko had that morning. Her shoulders softened as she looked at him with shining eyes. “You’re such a good boy, Peter.” 

He nodded. 

  
  
  


Mr. Shapiro could juggle. He showed off with the small potatoes Mrs. Shapiro was trying to peel for dinner. “Learned this from this kid in my troop,” he said, pretending to drop them on Davey’s head—catching them mere seconds before they could him, like some large game of jacks. Davey laughed, squealing as his father’s knuckles just brushed the top of his curls. “He was some baby face from Kansas or somewhere. He could also spit fire with cheap booze and a match, can you believe it?” 

Peter couldn’t, but Davey sure did. 

Mrs. Shapiro snatched the potatoes back as Mr. Shapiro and Davey laughed, each even more ecstatic than the other to be together again. In Mrs. Shapiro’s room, though, the uniform hung on the back of the door, freshly ironed and ready for use, a gloomy reminder for the Shapiros that this visit was brief—on Wednesday, Mr. Shapiro shipped out for Europe. 

Slipping away from the table, Mr. Shapiro dropped a hand onto Peter’s shoulder. “Can I talk to you outside Peter?” 

Peter followed Mr. Shapiro out of the apartment. He shuffled nervously from foot to foot as Mr. Shapiro dropped down onto the sets. “Sit down here, Peter, let’s talk,” he said, patting the wooden stair beside him. Slowly, Peter sat. “Don’t look so nervous. You aren’t in any trouble.” 

“No, sir?” 

“No,” Mr. Shapiro replied. “I—well, I wanted to tell you how impressed I am with you. When Betty wrote to tell me she let some strange boy into the apartment, I wasn’t sure what to think. But then she told me about how patient you were with Davey, how helpful you were around the house, how hard you’ve worked to get to know everybody, go to shul, attend Shabbat. Some of the other mothers are jealous.” 

Peter blushed. “Thank you.” 

“I want to ask you to look out for Betty and Davey,” he said. “With the baby coming soon, she’s gonna need someone to help out, maybe earn some extra money.” 

“Of course, sir,” Peter replied. “I will.” 

“Good,” he said. “I’m counting on you.  If you’re going to be staying here, as the oldest boy I consider it your responsibility to keep everyone safe.” 

That word—responsibility—was heavy as a wet coat, sinking down on his shoulders. There was so much to be responsible for—for his friends in the apartment building, for Davey, for Mrs. Shapiro, and, at night, with Davey’s red handkerchief around his mouth, all of Brooklyn. Stiffening up, Peter shifted the burden on his shoulders to something manageable, nodding grimly. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder any longer, he told himself. There was only now, in 1942, in Brooklyn. 

“I can do it, sir,” Peter replied. “I’m your man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sings* Moskowitz and Lupowitz!

**Author's Note:**

> I've been preparing my whole life to write this fic. I have seen more old movies than any millennial has a right to. Consider this fic a poor attempt to exorcise the demons laid upon me by my blindly nostalgic baby boomer father.


End file.
